Vainly Justifiable Motive

Started Monday.March.23.2009 at 1:14 pm – Ended Saturday.September 19.2009 at 4:44 pm

“Utopia”

You wake up screaming. You are lying on the cold cement floor of a cold dimly lit room. You can hear a low hum that seems to come from all around. What is this place? How did you get here?

You stand up and shudder as your bare feet touch the cement. You stand still for a few moments waiting for your eyes to adjust to the darkness. In the corner of the room you see a locker and, opening it, find one of your shoes, as well as a sock, and put them on. You also see a freshly pressed, neatly folded suit with a clip-on name tag reading “Hi! My name is” and then the name “Miller” written in marker. Beside the locker you notice a light switch. After thinking it over for a second, you take off the shoe, put on the suit, put the shoe back on and then flip on the light.

You are momentarily blinded by the brightness. When your eyes adjust again, you notice that the rest of the room is filled with various types of large machinery. Transformers, and motors, and pistons, and data banks all working away. Well, that solves the sound, you think to yourself.

You make your way through the machinery and find a door on the other side of the room. Going through the door you find yourself standing in the corner of a large empty ballroom with music playing lightly over the intercom speakers. From the ceiling, hang several ornate chandeliers which, had they been on, would light up the wood paneled walls and the various portraits and tapestries hung upon them. Daylight streams through the windows and lights up the dance floor at the other end. In the middle of the dance floor is your other shoe. You look around to see if you can figure out where exactly you are or how you got here but, finding no clues in your immediate area, you walk into the light and pick up the shoe.

The window, you think to yourself. The window will show me where I am. You make your way to the large ornate window and look at the world outside.

The first thing you notice is that you’re on the second floor. Below lies a rather large garden filled with brightly coloured plants of every description. You notice by the way they bow and bend that there is a slight breeze. Beyond that, you see the city. Beautiful isn’t it? However, you notice that something is a little off. Some little voice in the back of your head. Something’s wrong. This is wrong. Have you figured it out yet?

You keep looking. Looking at the tall glass buildings stretching into the sky, and a mountain far in the distance. The architecture was beautiful. Spires and arches and things whose names were known to their builders. On the ground, you see people walking their dogs in the park. Picnic-ing. Skipping stones in the pond. Walking to and from work. Then it hits you. It’s too perfect.

And you’re right. The colours are too bright. The grass is too green. The sky is too blue. There is absolutely no way a civilization as advanced as the one before you could… unless… no. It couldn’t be. You need to get out of here as soon as possible. Perhaps there were some clues back in the room with the machinery? Yes, you decide. That’s where you started, so that’s where you’ll—

“Mr Winkfield?”

You turn around. There’s a man. He looks out of breath, as if he had just been running. He has, what used to be, neatly combed brown hair and a slight five o’clock shadow. He’s wearing a slightly rumpled dress shirt and a skinny black tie. He looks to be in is late thirties or early forties. He has one hand in his pocket and the other one scratching his head which was slightly tilted to one side. His name tag reads “Hi! My name is” and “Thompson”.

“Oh, I’m sorry,” he continued. “Thought you were Mr Winkfield. I don’t think I’ve ever seen you before… umm…” he squints his eyes, reading the tag. “…Miller. Are you new here?”

“Well… I… I guess I am,” you answer.

“Then, I insist you allow me to show you around the city,” he says with a smile, gesturing his hands out into the hallway.

“No, I think I’ll be alright… ummm… Thompson. I… was… I think I’m done here. I was just leaving.”

“Nonsense! You said it yourself that you just arrived,” he pauses for a moment and smiles again. “But if you’ve got your heart set on leaving, then I guess I’m in no position to stop you. You’ll need to see the city council about leaving, though. Allow me to escort you.”

What now? Your brain races, trying to figure out the best course of action. You decide to take him up on his offer and follow him out the door. Once outside the building, you decide to strike up a conversation.

“So, Thompson, what exactly is it that you do?”

“I’m a concierge. One of the many concierges of this fine city,” he says proudly. He adjusts his tie.

“Yes, I’m sorry. But, the city of…”

“Why, the city of Fia Milorenti!” he says, gesturing around him. “My my, you really aren’t from around here. I don’t see how you made it all the way to the Rossin Building without knowing that!”

“’Fia Milorenti,'” you repeat. “Does it mean anything?”

“I’m sure it does. I never really gave it much thought, to be honest. Do you know what the name of your city means? In any case, right now, we are crossing Freedom Park.”

The park was filled with people. All of them seemed to be wearing much the same as Thompson was: a name tag and most of a business suit. Little boys were wearing slacks and sweater vests or ties, and the girls were wearing dresses and bows in their hair. All of them had happy smiles on their faces. They all also looked to be in perfect health. No coughs or sneezes, no limps or shortness of breath. Even the elderly, who were dressed more casually in shorts and loafers and the like; they too looked as healthy as they ever have. They all seemed to be participating in an activity of some sort. You couldn’t tell any sort of discernible pattern, but every once in a while someone would run to one end of the park, fiddle around with a ball tied to the trunk of a tree and then run back the the exact spot they had been standing and then continue whatever it was they were doing.

“What are they doing?” you ask. “Is it some sort of game?”

The second you end your sentence Thompson stops dead in his tracks. You also stop. Well, there you go, you think to yourself. You probably insulted him or something. After a moment he slowly spins around to face you and you see he has another huge grin on his face. He cups both hands around his mouth and shouts at the top of his lungs:

“Excuse me, everybody! I just lost The Game!” And bursts out laughing. As if on cue, everyone nearby also stops. They all seem to be focusing on something. Their faces in deep concentration. But then, each of them, also announces their loss of the ‘Game’. And so it spread, out like ripples in a pond; men, women, and children all shouting their loss of The Game. And then all burst into a fit of laughter. Thompson smiles and continues walking.

“What was that?!?” you demand.

“Oh, I lost The Game,” he says offhandedly.

“And… those other people. They lost the ‘Game’ too?”

He stops and looks at you the way one would look at someone who had said something silly. “Yes,” he says simply.

“Does… does that mean I won the game?”
Thompson smiles again and continues walking.

Deeper in the park, you notice something. Every few feet there would be a metal pole, about eight or ten feet tall, with what looked like air-raid speakers mounted to the tops. However, instead of a harsh klaxon, or buzzing sound, it played a soft gentle sort of song. You recognize it as the one from the ballroom. At the foot of each of the poles was a wooden park bench, and on each of these sat more people. Each of these people, again, wore much the same as Thompson.

You very quickly notice that each person is holding a book in their lap, reading it intently. Books of all sizes and subjects. Books from Twain to Poe. From Asimov to Orwell. From King to Munsch to Applegate. They were reading textbooks, novels, manuals, “how-to’s”, fiction, non fiction, mystery, romance, suspense, and even a few pop-up books here and there.

A young boy, about the age of five or six, upon seeing us hopped of his bench and ran over. In his hand was an edition of ‘Animal Farm’, with his finger in between some pages so as to keep his place. He had scruffy brown hair which was just long enough to cover his ears slightly. He was wearing khaki pants as well as a plaid sweater vest over a black button down shirt. You notice that the heels of his pants are slightly frayed at the edges and a barely noticeable stain of mud had been washed from it’s knees. Probably from playing baseball or some such. An age worn name tag was clipped on his vest which read “Hi! My name is” and then “Thompson” written in crayon. The name “Thompson” looked as if it had been written by the child when he was a little younger and even had a cute little backwards ‘s’. The ‘o’s might have also been backwards, but it’s difficult for you to tell.

“Hey dad!”
The older Thompson smiles. He picks up the boy and spins him around.
“Hey, sport! Enjoying your book?”
“It’s okay, I guess,” the boy says. “I sorta’ understand where Orwell is coming from, but being a satire of Communism written during World War II…” He shrugs his shoulders. “It’s not hard to guess where the plot is going. But, yeah, anyway, mom wanted me to tell you not to be late for dinner. She’s making blackberry pie for dessert.”

The father kneels down to match his sons height. “Blackberry pie? Oh, well then I better not be late then. Thanks for the heads up.” He ruffles the child’s hair. “I’m thinking of making some apple pie tomorrow. Do you think you could help me out and pick some up from the market?”
“I sure can!”
“Fantastic!” The father pulls a coin out of his pocket and hands it to the boy. “Here’s a nickel. It should be enough for you to get a couple. Now, run along.”

The boy bent down, picked up a dried blade of grass and placed it into the novel as a bookmark. He then put the book, along with the nickel, into his pocket. With a smile, the boy walks away and Thompson stands up.

You feel a tickle in your nose and, politely, turn away and sneeze into your arm. When you look back at Thompson you see the boy bend down, pick up a dried blade of grass and place it into the novel as a bookmark. He then puts the book, along with the nickel, into his pocket. Then, with a smile, the boy walks away and Thompson stands up.

It takes you a moment to process what had just happened. The boy walked away, and then walked away again. Both times looked exactly the same. There we have it. Fake. All of it fake. You had to leave as soon as possible. Now more than ever.

Thompson walks back over to you, brushing dust from his knees and smiling. “Say, do you believe in deja vu?” he asks. He gestures down the path, and you both continue walking.

“It’s French,” he says. “It means ‘already seen’. It’s a phenomenon that describes when one sees a new event they feel they have seen before. It’s really quite interesting.” He gives you a knowing look. “We are now leaving Freedom Park, and are now crossing Redemption Boulevard.”

“Your city has weird names,” you comment.
“Oh? I haven’t noticed,” he shrugs. He continues walking, but only manages to take a few steps before stopping. He brings his hand over his ear and turns to face you. “I’m sorry, I need to take this. It will only take a moment.” He walked a few steps away and began talking into his wrist. You try to listen in, but only manage to pick up bits and pieces.

“Hello? Yes, sir, I’m………… no, the speakers seem to be working perfectly. If we adjust…………………………………… I’m with a…………….. one of us, soon………………………………….. the Rossin Building? I’ll be right there.”

He turns back to face you. “My apologies, something has come up which I must attend to. You’ll have to continue on your own. We’re not far, though. The City Council do their business in the Ministry of Law building, in the District of Peace. You just need to cross past Temperance Hall and make a left at the Bridge of Infallibility. The road will take you right to it. Now, the Ministry of Law is pretty close to the city boarder, but you must not cross the city limits without an okay from the council. Feel free to go anywhere else on the way, though. We don’t get many visitors, but I know everyone will be as accommodating as I have been, if not more so.” He takes a bow. “And with that, I must take leave. I sincerely hope you find your way.”
He gives one last smile, and walks away.

You take a moment to get your bearings. You were literally across the street from the city proper. Standing a few feet in front of you are the tall glistening buildings you had seen from the window. Even from up close, they sparkle and shine as if they were made of stars. Here in this fictional fabricated world, their walls had never known dust. Never known scratches. And they shined.

You make your way through the city without incident. However, you notice that from each of the street lamps hangs a speaker, still playing the same light tune. Also, despite being mostly empty, the streets were rather well decorated. Banners and flowers and other forms of urban art blended seamlessly with the pristinely reflective windows. You pass several people, again, wearing much the same as Thompson was. They smile their overly happy smiles, wave as they pass you, and you smile politely in return.
You pass Temperance Hall and see a bridge in the distance.

Going in the direction of the bridge, you leave the tall skyscrapers of the city and begin walking among smaller, quainter little shops. Shops built mostly with brick and mortar, rather than glass or steel. Businesses run with sweat and hard work, rather than machines. As you walk along, you see a little boy standing outside one of the shops.

He had scruffy brown hair which was just long enough to cover his ears slightly. He was wearing khaki pants as well as a plaid sweater vest over a black button down shirt. You notice that the heels of his pants are slightly frayed at the edges and a barely noticeable stain of mud had been washed from it’s knees. Probably from playing baseball or some such. It was Thompson’s son. He was standing outside a produce store. The store, as well as the racks outside the store that all produce stores had, were filled with various types of fruits and vegetables. Apples and watermelons and peaches and blueberries and some you’ve never seen before. The boy was standing outside the store, and he was crying.

“Hey, buddy! What’s wrong?” you ask, kneeling down.
“I dropped my nickel in the sewer grate and now I can’t buy any apples,” he manages to say through his tears. The boy who gave the eloquently educated review of ‘Animal Farm’ was gone, at the moment. He was acting like any real child his age would have acted. Then you remember the Deja vu. The glitch in the system or the time skip, whatever it was. It’s not real. He’s not real. However, real or not, you’d feel pretty rotten just walking away from a child obviously in need. You look into the store. The clerk at the register had his back to you and was busy stacking boxes on a shelf.

You grab a couple apples off the rack and hand them to the boy.

“Here you are. Now, umm, run along.”
“But…” The boy looked confused. He looked at the sewer grate, then at the store and then at the apples he was holding. He looked like he was about to say something.

“Let’s keep this our secret,” you interrupt. “Yes?” You put your finger over your lips and smile. The boy looks up and down the street, his eyes wide. Then, he smiles and puts his finger over his lips, almost dropping an apple in the process. You give him a wink and part ways. Him to his home, presumably, and you towards the bridge.

Several blocks later, and still in what was apparently the Quaint Little Shops District, the road takes a gentle slope up a tall hill. At the top of the hill is an intersection. The road to the right led off to more little shops. The road behind was where you had just come from. You look at the road directly in front of you.

The road leads down the hill, swerving back and forth like a serpent, leading to the bridge. And, to the left of the bridge, you see it. It sat there; impossibly big. Towering over anything, no, everything else for miles. You had thought it was a mountain, the first time you had seen it. A towering white citadel, made of marble and glass and ivory and steel, it’s gargantuan towers and extensions drawing your attention to it’s even more infinitely tall pinnacle, was the Ministry of Law.

Wow.

But you’ve seen this movie before, right? If you walked into the building you might as well cover yourself in steaks and jump into a lions den. There would be guards. There would be a struggle. There would be an operating table or a brainwashing film, or a torture chamber, or a pill. And when you left you would be one of them. One of the smiling faces in an ocean of grins.
You look at the road to your left.

It wasn’t a very decorated road. No shimmering skyscrapers or little shops. Not even some sort of Giant Building of Doom. No, down the road to your left, about a hundred yards or so, were a pair of buildings that you could have sworn… Yes. The buildings looked like toll booths.

There was one on each side of the road, and both had a sort of bar lowered. Both buildings were empty and you could see a sign posted on the window with the words “Council assistance required to pass.” The road went towards the toll booths, and on off into the distance surrounded by trees as far as could be seen.

Out and away from the city.

You look back at the Ministry of Law.
I’ll take my chances with the toll booths, you say to yourself.

When you reach the booths, you find out that, yes, they were empty. You also notice that there was a line in the ground a few feet past the bar. Everything past the line seemed to warp and wiggle. Like looking through a bubble. You walk up to the line and stick out your arms.

Your hands pressed against something like rubber. You would push and it would stretch, but it would bounce back if you stopped pushing. You test it a few more times, and then pull back your arm in a fist. With all the strength you could muster after all the walking you’ve done, you punch through the bubble.

You manage to break through, to your surprise, with the strange rubbery substance sticking to your forearm. Then, as if it were alive, it crawls down your arm, goes over your fist, reseals itself and then pushes your arm back in. But for the few brief seconds your arm was through, you felt something. A radiating warmth. A gust of wind. Particles of dust in the air.

You crouch down and press against the part of the rubber closer to the ground. You push as hard as you can and manage to stretch it by a foot. You bring your arm down. Yes! Solid ground. The solid ground on the other side was real.

There was wind, dust, trees and ground on the other side. Well, that’s enough proof for me.

You prop up the bar blocking the road and, taking off your shoes, you jog a dozen meters back down the road. When you get far enough away, you turn around. You take a deep breath. And another. And another. And, with one last look at the city behind you, you break into a run.

Running. Running as fast as you could. Arms and legs pumping, eyes focused straight ahead of you. Come on! Come on! Faster! Sweat pouring down your face, arms pumping like mad, you reach the toll booth and you dive at the bubble.

You dive through the bubble.

You fly through the air and hear a POP! as you make it to the other side and feel the gravel scrape your skin as you land. You chuckle to yourself. I made it. You are about pick yourself up when you hear an incredibly high pitched whine. Like that of some machinery powering up.

Then a brilliant flash of light as everything went black.

You awake to find yourself on the cold metal floor of a hallway. It was an unremarkable hallway. The walls looked as if they had been white at some point and the floor was the regular grey of steel. The hall had two doors. One at either end. Both doors looked identical to each other. That is to say, both doors were made of steel and had door latches similar to those found on large upright freezers. Both doors also seemed to have several heavy wires running from the wall above a door to the wall above the other door. Well, I guess I’ll have to pick one of the doors. But which one? Left or right?

You look at the door to your left. You notice a bright light coming out from under the door and muffled sounds coming from behind it. You decide to investigate.

You walk up to the door and put your hand on the latch. It feels cold and grimy in your hand. Like ice covered in sand. It looks like it hadn’t been opened in a long time. You pull and, with a creak, the latch pops open and the door along with it.

The room it opened into looked enormous, however, you quickly realized that it was a trick of the light. The walls, the floor, and the ceiling were completely and perfectly white. Also, all the corners in the room were beveled and rounded so that the walls, the floor, and the ceiling all looked to be curved into each other. If you looked at the wall straight on, it would almost look to be going on forever. If you were to step into the middle of the room and look back at the door, it would look as if it were somehow standing on it’s own in a giant field of white. It’s metal hinges and frame just standing there, like magic.

The right side of the room seemed to be dedicated to being someone’s bedroom. There was a nightstand, on top of which were a lamp and several video tapes. On the left of the nightstand was an old oaken wardrobe, and on the right was an ornately carved wooden cot with a mattress. You notice the brass knobs of the wardrobe are scratched and worn from many, many years of use. Likewise, the feet on the furniture were also in poor condition, perhaps from repeated rearrangement.

On the left side of the room, inset on the wall was a steel console, the top of which was covered in buttons and knobs. Above the console was a small rectangular hole in the wall. Above this, also set into the wall, were about twenty or so monitors. These monitors were arranged around a larger main monitor in the center. The sound from the footage it was playing was what you had heard from the other side of the door. Each monitor showed a different area of the city. In one monitor you recognize a quaint little shop you had passed. In another, you see the entrance to one of the large shimmering skyscrapers. Another showed the ball that had been tied to the tree trunk in Freedom Park. The pictures in the other monitors were unfamiliar. The footage seemed to be regular security camera type footage, however, everything seemed to be going at more than double the normal speed. The people and animals all moving at an unnaturally fast speed. There was an empty chair pulled out in front of the console.

The rest of the room appeared to be empty. Except for the old man standing in front of you.

“Oh my goodness! A visitor!” The man looked very surprised.

He was wearing a tweed jacket, corduroy slacks, and loafers. The jacket had a second layer attached starting just before and ending just after the elbows, and the slacks appeared to be very old and worn. The loafers looked to be regular loafers. On his left wrist the man was wearing a silver watch, while the wrist on the right was covered by his jacket. His bald head was very shiny. He wasn’t completely bald, however. The man still had white hair on the sides and back of his head. His forehead was wrinkled in surprise. His eyebrows were raised and his brown eyes were wide, (also in surprise). Over his brown eyes, he wore a pair of black brow-line glasses, and over his wrinkly neck, he wore a polka-dot bow tie. Interestingly, the glasses had no lenses, and the bow tie was a clip on.

“A visitor! It… I… how…” He took a moment to collect himself. “Oh, you’ll have to excuse me,” he continued. “I don’t get many visitors here. Umm… who are you?”

“My name’s Miller,” you respond. “Sandra Miller. And I guess you’re the one in charge around here, hmm? The Puppet Master? The man behind the curtain? The Master Programmer? Stop me when I get close.”

“Me? In charge? Now, now,” he says with a chuckle. “Young lady, you seem to be very mistaken. I’m… not in charge of anything.”

“Oh, don’t try to hide it! Not when I can see it right in front of me!” You are shouting now. “This… this… place is clearly your base of operations. I’ve worked it all out, see? You use that machine over there to control the city; it’s weather, it’s bubble, it’s buildings. I don’t know how you got that many people to act the way they did; Robots, or drugs, or some kind of hypnosis. But either way, I don’t care! I just want out!”

The man raised his arms, attempting to calm you down. “Now, madam, you seem to be very, very, very, confused.” He spoke slowly. “That machine over there is an Observation Console. All it does is watch and record. And, most of it’s functions are automated.”

“If all it does is watch, then why is the picture moving so fast, huh? I’ll tell you why. Because you put it on fast forward. Your little game of life hit a dry spell and now you’re skipping ahead to see what your little pets will do next.”

“Ah, now that I can partially explain.” He walks over to the console. “You see, they are not moving at a high speed. We are the ones moving at a slow speed. Time moves slower in this room than in the rest of the world. The rate changes from time to time, but I’ve managed to average it at about a month or so for them, for every day for us. I can’t explain why.” He shrugs his shoulders. “I… wasn’t from around here. Same as you.”

The machine give a loud, clear, DING and a video tape pops out of a slot in the console. This seemed to raise the old man’s spirits. He walked over to the wardrobe and opened it. The entire wardrobe was filled to the brim with stacks and stacks of video tapes.

“Now, I mentioned that most of the console functions are automated, yes? Well, that also includes clipping the most interesting parts of it’s footage every so often and compiling them into a tape as a sort of overview or status report. It ends up almost looking like a television show, actually. In fact, I can remember this one time when Alan and the Smith boy from down the street saved up their allowance and bought a surprise birthday gift for their parents. And another time when Jeffery got his father to help him on his science project and ended up winning first prize! And this other time when the Hutsons decided to visit the new furniture store that had opened up, but Mr. Hutson kept on making a wrong turn and they ended up circling the block for two hours and just talking! It was a hoot!” He smiled and his eyes went glassy for a second as he looked off into the distance, savoring the memory. After a moment, he picked up the tape that had popped out of the console and continued. “Since you, madam, are not from around here, I think it would be safe to say that most of the recent clips would involve you. Perhaps if we watch it, we could figure out how you got here and how to get you back to where you were.”

“Hang on a minute,” you say. “Where exactly am I?”

“The Rossin Building,” he says, pressing buttons and turning knobs on the console. “Specifically, it’s the underground extension of the second floor.” He inserts the tape into the slot in the wall. The center monitor flickers for a moment as it reads the tape. The old man excitedly hops into the chair and leans forward. You walk closer to the monitor to take a better look.

“My goodness, where are my manners,” the man says. He gets up out if the chair and gestures for you to sit down. You sit and, as the tape starts, the man leans on the backrest of the chair.

The tape starts out in the room with all the machinery. “See, that’s were we are,” whispers the man. He points to a door in the back of the room you hadn’t seen. The camera was trained on an empty patch of floor beside a locker for a few moments. Suddenly, you appear. No flash of light or cloud of smoke. You just appear. “Huh,” says the man. “That’s… new.” You find it interesting that the camera seems to have picked certain angles to artistically conceal your lack of clothing. You watch yourself retrieve the suit and one of your heels from the locker and go into the ballroom. You see yourself go up to the window and Thompson run in from the hallway behind you. “That’s Danny Thompson,” whispers the old man with a smile. He tapped the part of the screen where Thompson was standing. You watch as the both of you leave the building and walk through the park. When Thompson announces his loss of The Game, the old man chuckled quietly to himself. When Thompson meet his son, you turn to the old man. “Look. Here,” you say. “When the boy started to leave there was some kind of time skip or something, look.” You point at the screen.

The boy bent down, picked up a dried blade of grass and placed it into the novel as a bookmark. He then put the book, along with the nickel, into his pocket. With a smile, the boy walked away and Thompson stood up.

“Look! Right here.”

You see yourself turn away to sneeze. Just as you turn away, however, the boy turned and ran back to his father to give him a hug, causing the nickel and book to fall out of his pocket. He picked them up. When the you that was in the video looked back at Thompson, you would see the boy bend down, pick up a dried blade of grass and place it into the novel as a bookmark. He would then put the book, along with the nickel, into his pocket. Then, with a smile, the boy would walk away and Thompson would stand back up.

What? You stare at the screen. “That’s…not… I don’t understand. How-” The old man shushes you as the video continues.

You watch as you walk through the skyscrapers. You watch as you walked past the shops and see Thompson’s son. When the camera reveals that the child was crying, the old man pulls out a handkerchief and dabs at his own eyes. But, when he sees you pluck the apples off the cart, his expression changes suddenly. “Wait. What… what are you doing?”

“I had to stop him crying,” you answer. “After all, it’s just a couple of apples. I’m sure a handful of apples isn’t going to put the store out of business or anything.” The man still looked concerned, but when he saw the child smile, he seemed to soften a little.

When you reached the top of the hill, the camera had zoomed in on the bridge and then dramatically turned and zoomed out to reveal the Ministry of Law.

“Isn’t it magnificent? The sheer majesty of it,” the man said airily. “I never get tired of seeing it.”

The camera turns and follows you as you walk over to the toll booths. When you started testing the bubble, the man’s smile began to fade. When you took off your heels, he began to look concerned.

“What are you doing? You need to see the Council.” You broke into a run. “No. No. Nonononononono NO!” As you dive through the bubble, the bubble pops and the video cuts out. The man just stood there, dumbfounded. His hands were clutching the backrest and his knuckles were turning white. He looked in horror at the blank screen, and then turned to face you. He was breathing heavily.

Quickly, the man turned and ran over to the open wardrobe. Using both hands he pulled stack after stack of tapes out onto the floor. “Fix it,” he muttered to himself. “I’ve got to fix it.” When he reached the back of the wardrobe, he reached behind the remaining stacks and pulled out a coat and an old rumpled hat. He put them on. “Time. There’s no time! I’ve got to fix it.” He hobbled out the door and closed it behind him. You hear the CLICK as the door locks.

You run to the door. “Hey! Let me out!” You pound on the door. “I might be able to help!”

“Oh, I think you’ve done enough damage here,” the man shouted from the other side. “You have no idea what you have done! The apples, the bubble…” You hear the other door open and close.

What now? You turn away from the door and look at the pile of tapes scattered on the floor. You were locked in the room. So you did the only thing you could do. You sat at the console and watched.

You watched as Thompson’s son brought the apples home and helped his father bake them into a pie. You watched as he went to school and played with his friends. You watched as, one day, he forgot his lunch at home and you watched as he took another apple from the cart. You watched as he told his friends and said to keep it a secret. You watched as he did it again the next day. You watched as he got caught by the clerk. You watched as he denied it to his father, watched as he kept the secret. You watched as Thompson believed the boy, and the clerk began to be mistrusted. You watched as he lost his customers and went out of business. You watched as the dominoes fell, one after another. The other shopkeepers raising prices so as to have more saved away, not wanting to end up like the produce clerk. The office workers working longer hours to keep up with prices. The parks being frequented less and less. Books lying on park benches, collecting dust. The people looking tired as their smiles faded away. You watched as the dirt and grime and grit clung to the once shiny towers, no longer held back by the bubble. And you watched as other things entered the city as well. You watched, because the tapes kept coming. You watched because you must.

It happened at night; the thing that would push it over the edge. The poor citizens of Fia Milorenti had gone to bed that night, dreaming about another perfect day in their perfect city. But in the morning, the city would wake up. And it would wake up screaming.